Fic: The Molesey Mystery
Apr. 5th, 2009 09:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elabyWhy does Holmes fic take me so darn long to write? Ah well! I'm not complaining. This one is a product of my current fascination with Lestrade, although it's really more about Watson, and it has an actual mystery in it, unlike any of my other Holmes stories.
I babbled to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
caitirin a great deal during the writing of this, because I couldn't keep my own plot straight (she helped with that), and we had this conversation in the dining hall one night:
elaby: I started a Lestrade fic today.
caitirin: Ooh! I love Lestrade fics! ... for some reason. I blame you.
elaby: Hee! I love Lestrade.
caitirin: Lestrade hits on Watson!
elaby: That's Russian Lestrade. I love Granada Lestrade.
caitirin: That's because he makes a good OT3.
elaby: XD My story just has Lestrade and Watson, though. It's while Holmes is "dead."
caitirin: It's an OT2, then.
elaby: It's more like an OT3 less one.
caitirin: It's an OTsad! *madface*
elaby: ^^;;;
It did rather turn out to be an OTsad, if you consider "one true pairing/three/whatever" to encompass awkward prickly unsure friendships and utterly devoted lifemates. Anyway, without further ado.
Title: The Molesey Mystery
Rating: PG for mild swearing and the results of violence
Characters: Watson, Lestrade, Holmes in absentia
Disclaimer: All characters created by ACD belong to their copyright holder(s), not me.
Summary: When Holmes returned in 1894, he told Lestrade that he had handled the Molesey Mystery "fairly well." This may have been because Lestrade had some help.
Warnings: Hiatus-fic, so there's quite a bit of unhappiness involved.
Word Count: 5,859
Notes: Lestrade narrates. This is set in the late spring of 1891, about a month after Holmes's "death." It was inspired by the implication in the Granada series that Watson worked with Lestrade fairly often during Holmes's absence. This is also kind of a much longer prequel to my ficlet Most Unexpected, about Lestrade's reaction to Holmes's telegram notifying him of his return. As such, it also features Constable MacPherson, hopefully less put-upon this time.
I didn't believe a word of it when I read it in the papers. A man like that does not die, I said to myself, despite the fact that a detective should know better than most that every man meets his end eventually. That was all well and good for everybody else, but it was somehow more difficult to believe in this case; a man like Mr. Sherlock Holmes does not die. How stupid did those reporters think we were?
I determined to go round to Baker Street at my earliest convenience and see for myself what was up. My earliest convenience ended up being a number of days after the article came out, owing to business at the Yard, but go I did, and as the familiar brownstone came into view, I saw Dr. Watson standing on the steps and talking to that landlady of theirs. The poor woman was distraught, but I needn't have seen her at all – it only took one look at the doctor and I knew it was true.
I stood like an idiot on the street-corner for I don't know how long, until some bloke ran smack into me and I realized I was blocking traffic. Then I headed back toward the Yard and tried to think what the hell we were all going to do now.
Four miserable weeks brought into sharp focus how much I had truly depended on Mr. Holmes, and the frustration of his being gone was exacerbated by the frustration of seeing my own deficiencies laid before me as neatly as if he'd pointed them out himself. He was smug and unconventional, he delighted in breaking rules that the official force must needs hold to, and he was deucedly hard to get along with, but no detective worth his salt would deny Mr. Holmes's brilliance. He'd never know it now (and God help me if I'd ever admitted it to him) but I admired him, and I valued our conversations when he deigned to include me, as insufferable as the man sometimes was. Scotland Yard had muddled along without him before he ever offered us his services, and we would do so again; nevertheless I was sorry for it.
It was during the fifth week that one of the constables poked his head into my office and said that there was a Dr. John Watson here to see me. Surprised and more than a little curious, I gave word to have him sent in. I admit it shook me to see him; I barely recognized the man. From the looks of him, any troubles I'd been having were nothing compared with his.
He was as courteous as always in greeting me and asking how things at the Yard were going, but I was too distracted to give more than perfunctory answers, and I found myself unthinkingly slipping into the role I employed when dealing with bereaved spouses. If he noticed, he gave no indication; I stopped when I realized how ridiculous I sounded, more to prevent my own embarrassment than his.
"What can I do for you, Doctor?" I asked when we had run out of awkward pleasantries. "I'm delighted to see you, of course, but I doubt you came all the way down just for that."
"No, indeed," he said, with a shyness that only made his despondency seem deeper. "There was something definite I wanted to ask you. My practice is doing well, but all the same I find myself with..." Here he paused and gave a weak smile. "...a bit too much free time. I don't suppose there's any need at the Yard for a surgeon? I know you've worked with some in the past in determining the cause of death in murder investigations."
"We have," I said, "and we can always use another. Whether I'd be able to get you onto the payroll is a different matter--" Dr. Watson held up a hand to stop me.
"I would not need to be compensated."
"Are you sure?" I asked. "It isn't pleasant work, and the hours are irregular to say the least."
"Did Holmes ever charge you for his services?" He said it as steadily as a man ever said anything, but something in his face now made it clear that this request had little to do with boredom.
"No," I said softly, then cleared my throat. "No, he didn't. We'd be happy to have you, Doctor. Our consulting surgeons work on a rotation, and we have separate lists based on specialty." We spent a few minutes discussing his schedule and I let him know that we'd wire him or drop by when his services were needed.
A week or so later there was a murder in a boarding house in Soho. The body was discovered in the evening just before darkness began to fall. They were lighting the streetlamps as we walked from the nearest terminus down toward the house in Broad Street, myself and young Constable MacPherson, who had the dubious honor of fetching me from Rotherhithe where I'd been untangling a bungled robbery investigation. The experience left me in no sweet temper.
"You've sent for a surgeon, I take it?" I asked him.
"Yes, sir," MacPherson replied, flipping through loose pages of the untidy notebook he kept. "A Dr. Watson. We sent off a telegram just before I came to find you."
"He might be here before us, then," I said. "That'll ensure one thing's done right tonight in any case." This was the first time I was to work with Dr. Watson, but I'd heard around the Yard that he'd been more successful than many of our surgeons in keeping his examinations in line with the requirements of a murder investigation. He certainly had enough experience in the area.
A detective sergeant was keeping the curious public back from the steps of the boarding house, and another constable waited inside the door. He informed me that the other residents were being held for interviews – despite the six possible rooms, there were only two others filled – and the surgeon had arrived and was already upstairs. The room in question was tucked in the back opposite the lavatory, accessible through a narrow abomination of architecture that served as a vestibule.
To call the entire place squalid would have been generous. The landlord had apparently not yet seen fit to pay the expense of having gas laid, and in addition to the dimness there had been little in the way of cleaning: tallow stained the railings and the carpet going up the stairs was dark with dirt from the street. I could see a faint light from an open door coming from the back of the landing, and I headed toward that with MacPherson at my heels.
I stepped into the so-called vestibule and saw two lit lamps placed on the floor on either side of the body of a young woman. Dr. Watson was not beside her, however; he was standing over by the bed with another lamp in his hand. As I watched, he set it down and threw himself onto his hands and knees to inspect the floor in a manner that was most jarringly familiar. A few moments passed and he pulled himself up, and there was where the similarities ended – he moved gingerly, as if he were in pain, and as he rose he gripped the bed-frame for support and favored one leg. I know the man's not old by any stretch, but he looked it then, as if he carried some terrible weight he only just bore up under, and it was merely a matter of time before it dragged him down again.
There in the darkness of the hall I choked up all of a sudden. To this day I'm not certain why – it's always the stupidest thing that does it, isn't it? I waved MacPherson on ahead of me to give myself a moment's composure, and he peered at me with a sort of daft alarm that made me want to hit him. In the interest of not causing a scene I refrained.
MacPherson finally went into the room and fumblingly asked Dr. Watson what he thought the girl died of, to which the doctor, with infinite patience, explained that the crushing blow to her skull probably did it. In a matter of seconds I had sufficiently mastered myself and I joined them beside the body.
"Doctor," I said with a nod. "Thank you for coming."
"Good evening, Inspector," he said. "Do you have any idea who this woman is?" I looked to Constable MacPherson with upraised eyebrows.
"Hannah Molesey," he said, flipping open that damned notebook again. "We found her coat hanging on the back of the door, and there was a signed receipt in the pocket."
"What are your findings?" I asked Dr. Watson, and for a moment there was a distracted frown on his face. Then he shook himself and crouched down beside the woman. I followed suit.
"She was between twenty-five and thirty years old," he said. "She was hit with something heavy and blunt on the back of her head. The direction of the blow indicates that whoever hit her was right-handed. There's also some flakes of rust in her hair around the wound, which would suggest that the weapon was metal and old."
"When was the time of death?"
"Judging by the rigidity of her limbs I would say between six and twelve hours ago."
"Did you find anything else of note?" I asked.
"She was somewhat undernourished, but that's nothing singular, and from the look of her hands she has recently done a great deal of dextrous labor. Sewing, perhaps. The room is bare of any indication of human habitation save for a suitcase in the closet. I haven't spoken with the landlord, of course, but it would seem that Hannah Molesey only just moved in." He paused for a moment. "Or was in the act of moving out. Either would be equally plausible. There were a man's footprints in the dust on this side of the vestibule," he added, nodding in that direction, "but I daresay now..." Dr. Watson looked over at me with gentle remonstrance, and I sighed deeply.
"I ought to have been more careful on my way in, yes. Well, if anybody knows anything here, we'll find out about it, rest assured," I said, getting to my feet. I almost reached down to help the doctor up, but I didn't know how welcome it would be. If we had been alone I might've; preserving dignity was more important when there was a constable in the room. "Thank you for your help," I said, as Dr. Watson gazed down at the girl with the same preoccupied look. I folded my hands behind my back. "Was there anything else?"
He looked up as if surprised that I had noticed his scrutiny, then shook his head and rose. "No, nothing. You'll let me know what you find out?"
"Of course."
Two constables arrived with a stretcher to take the body away for an autopsy just as Dr. Watson was leaving, and afterwards MacPherson and I went back over the room and interviewed the landlord and the two other tenants. The former stated that the woman had paid for rooms under the name of Mary Langford, not Hannah Molesey, but that was the extent of the information we got out of them. She had only moved in the past weekend. No, she didn't have references, the landlord told me with a laconic gaze that seemed to ask if this looked like the sort of establishment that asked for references. She didn't say where she was from and he didn't ask. The other two tenants had spoken to her once or twice in the hall but otherwise knew nothing about her. They couldn't even confirm her name.
I left the house in an even worse mood than I'd arrived, which was saying something. "No-one knows where she came from, no-one knows where she worked, and no-one ever saw her in the company of anybody else," I muttered as MacPherson and I headed back toward the Yard. "I don't know how I'm supposed to do my job when I've got nothing to go on." Even more infuriating was the certainty that Mr. Sherlock Holmes would have seen some clue in the wasteland from which we had just departed even though I could find nothing. "What we're going to do is this. It's a busy street; if she was killed this morning, somebody around here had to have seen something. First thing tomorrow I want you back here and interviewing people until we get a lead we can follow. Meanwhile I'm going to try to see if I can sort out this mess concerning her name." MacPherson scribbled furiously in his notebook.
"Did you know that woman, sir?" he asked timidly as we turned the corner. I threw a contemptuous glare up at him.
"Know her? Of course I didn't know her! It would make our jobs a deal easier if I did. Don't you think I would've said so?" He gave an awkward half-shrug and looked chagrinned while I attempted to reign in my temper. "What on earth made you think that?"
"Well, sir, it's just when you saw her, you looked..."
"Yes, Constable? I looked what?" I snapped, with I daresay more harshness than he deserved.
"Nothing, sir! I didn't-- never mind, sir. I'm sorry, sir."
"Put it out of your mind, Constable," I said with a sigh. "It had nothing to do with the case."
The next day I succeeded in determining that we had no record of a Mary Langford at the Yard or any of our local branches, but I did not consider it much of a success. MacPherson brought back reports of a rough-looking man who was seen hanging around the house on the night previous to the murder, and one neighbor saw him again that morning. His description was hardly singular, though, and it would be long, arduous work locating him. The day after I was called out to Deptford to investigate a stabbing, and I didn't get back to the Yard until evening. When I came in one of the constables informed me that Dr. Watson had been waiting some time for me in my office.
I startled him in the middle of a reverie, and it did not seem an overly pleasant one, but he looked relieved to see me.
"I'm sorry to have made you wait, Doctor," I said. "You might've sent a telegram if it was urgent."
"It's not, really," Dr. Watson said, turning his hat about in his hands. "But it may be important. I've been racking my brains ever since I saw you last to try to remember why the name Hannah Molesey sounded familiar to me. It finally came back to me today – and that girl I examined was not Hannah Molesey."
"Can you be sure?" This light, if a light it was, looked to be the only one shed on the investigation thus far.
"Yes," said he, "absolutely. Immediately after I returned to practice – that was going on three years ago now, which is why I didn't recall right away – I treated a boy by the name of Joseph Molesey for pleurisy. I only heard of it in passing, but he had an older sister, called Hannah, who had worked in a factory as a child and had her right hand mangled in an accident. The hands of the young woman whose body I examined were perfectly whole."
I sat down at the desk and opened my notebook. "You don't happen to remember the address of this family, do you?"
Dr. Watson took a folded piece of paper out of his breast pocket and handed it over to me. "I took the liberty of checking my files for it. They may have moved in the intervening time, but it's a start."
"That it certainly is, Doctor," I said. "Finding out why this woman had Hannah Molesey's signed receipt in her pocket could go a long way in identifying her."
"You have no leads yet?"
"We're following up on several significant clues," I said brusquely, and then remembered who I was talking to. "But truly, yours is the only concrete information we've got so far. We have a vague description of a suspect and I'm having the house watched, but unless he comes back, there's little chance we'll find him down that route. It's a tangled mess, and you'll understand I'm not being modest when I say I fear it's beyond me."
Dr. Watson rubbed the bridge of his nose and gave a soft weary sigh. I don't put much stock in ghosts – not after that business with the hound up at Dartmoor – but if absence can have a presence and that's what you want to call it, I've never been in a room more haunted than my office that evening.
"I wish there was more I could do," Dr. Watson said after a time. "But I could see nothing in that room."
"Nor could I," I admitted, "but you've been immensely helpful as it is. I really--" There was a knock at the door then, and a detective sergeant put his head in.
"There's been a suicide off Waterloo Bridge, sir. They're asking you to come down."
I pushed myself out of my chair, and the doctor's gaze followed me as I went to the door. "Do you need any assistance?" he asked.
"I'd be a fool to refuse yours," I replied, and motioned him through the door ahead of me.
We arrived at Waterloo Bridge sometime after eight o'clock. Several constables were keeping the crowds away from a sad wet bundle someone had pulled out of the river. The sergeant was taking down statements from a pair of women who purported to know the unfortunate person. Dr. Watson bent down to see while I stood over. It was a woman wrapped in a voluminous coat, and when he pulled the fabric back I heard his sharp, startled intake of breath. He looked up at me in astonishment and moved back to show me her hand, scarred and twisted and missing the last two fingers.
"What was this woman's name?" I shouted over to the sergeant, more urgently than I meant to. He raised his eyebrows at my tone, but said:--
"Hannah Molesey, sir. These two ladies and a half dozen others saw her jump, Inspector – there's no reason to believe it was murder."
"I never said I thought it was," I barked at him and crouched down beside the doctor. "This is quite a coincidence."
"You really think it could be a coincidence?" he asked.
"You don't?"
"Well, perhaps," Dr. Watson said with a shrug, "but you would know best, Inspector." It was disconcerting to hear the same words Mr. Holmes had said to me countless times uttered without the slightest bit of sarcasm. Just such a statement from the mouth of the amateur had rankled me enough in the past to dismiss his theories out of hand, if only to prove that I did indeed know best. Long experience had eventually taught me not to ignore anything the man had to say, no matter how infuriatingly put, and Dr. Watson's deferential tone only made it clearer that I should give him the same consideration.
"I would be greatly obliged," I said, "if you would give me your opinion."
The doctor smiled then, just a little, but Lord if I wasn't glad to see it. It occurred to me that this was the first time I'd seen a genuine smile from him since he returned from the continent. "You found a receipt belonging to Hannah Molesey in Mary Langford's coat pocket," he said. "The probability is very strong that they had contact. Mary Langford is murdered, and two days later, Hannah Molesey kills herself. The two events are likely connected - she might have done it out of guilt or despair. Investigating her will be easier than investigating Mary Langford for one reason: Hannah Molesey had people who knew her. Her family may no longer live at the address from my files, but these women are sure to know where she lives now, or at least where she worked. And once we talk to the people who knew her, we can determine how well she knew Mary Langford."
"Sound reasoning indeed." Mr. Holmes would have done well, I thought, to take a page from Dr. Watson's book when it came to suggesting a course of action. It's remarkable how much more likely a man is to listen when one doesn't imply he's mentally inferior - no matter the truth of such an implication. I got to my feet, and while Dr. Watson continued his examination of the body, I talked to the two women whom the sergeant had been interviewing. It turned out they were passing acquaintances of the deceased and had worked with her at a factory that produced pre-cut clothing. Hannah Molesey had a reputation among the workers for coming from a respectable hardworking family but having fallen in with certain unscrupulous persons. They did not know her well, they told me, but she had been nervous of late, and for the past few days she had seemed positively frightened. One of them informed me, with the half-excited conspiratorial air particular to witnesses who had not loved the victim, that last Wednesday Hannah Molesey had broken down crying not an hour after arriving at work and had been sent home to rest.
Even more interesting were the nods of recognition I got when I asked if they happened to know a Mary Langford. She had been a great friend of Hannah Molesey, they said, but she quit work a few weeks ago and they hadn't heard anything about her since. They couldn't say for sure, but they did not believe Hannah Molesey knew where she was, either. Why, they asked, had I found her? I had the unfortunate duty of informing the two women of Mary Langford's death, and it sorely tried my patience to see them react with such unabashed fascination. They offered me every possible useless detail about Mary Langford after that, and it was all I could do to get away from them.
Dr. Watson had finished his examination by the time I joined him, but he still stood over her, apparently deep in thought. When I appeared by his side he nodded toward her.
"Does she strike you as familiar?"
I frowned and scrutinized the woman. Slight of build, hair darkened to honey-brown by the water, skin tinged slightly blue, the dark circles beneath her eyes the only visible sign of her harried last days. She was pitiful, to be sure, but nothing about her jogged my memory. Dr. Watson evidently saw this in my face, and he continued:-- "Her height, her build, and - as near as I can tell - her hair are very similar to Mary Langford's," he said. "Their faces are quite different, of course, but they do generally resemble one other."
"What do you make of that?" I asked. He shrugged.
"I'm not sure we ought to make anything of it, but it is something to note." Dr. Watson then went on to deliver the results of his examination, namely that the woman had clearly drowned and did not appear to have been living healthily of late. After that he bid me goodnight, saying that he had not told his wife he would be gone so long, and entreated a promise from me that I would let him know the moment we found any new information.
The next morning I took Dr. Watson's advice and went over to the factory where Hannah Molesey had worked, bringing Constable MacPherson along with me. We were there for less than an hour when a slight altercation occurred, and a muscular, sandy-haired man was turned out onto the street. He stood for a while shouting at the men who had ousted him, but they were unmoved, and finally he spun away from them, throwing his arms up in frustration. Beside me, MacPherson gave a start.
"Sir! That's the man I told you about, who's been hanging around near the house in Soho!"
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, sir, I am. He came twice yesterday, and he looked so agitated the first time I took particular note of him. So when he came back, I got hold of the neighbor who'd given me his description, and she identified him on the spot."
While MacPherson was talking, a pair of women came out of a door near the other end of the building. The man veered off toward them and appeared to be asking them something. Within seconds he began to get angry at their reticence.
"Well done, Constable!" I said fiercely and slapped MacPherson on the shoulder. He went red to the ears with pride, and we hurried out of the doorway where we had been waiting and across the street. As we neared them - he'd now taken one of the women by the arm and was shaking her roughly - I heard the man ask in no polite terms where Hannah Molesey was. Formidable as the fellow was, he went white as a fish's belly when he saw us. His reaction to being informed that Hannah Molesey was dead was even more remarkable: he gave a massive sigh of relief, and his color returned only to quickly bleed away again.
"I didn't--" he began, but wisely stopped when he saw my expectant look. He refused to say anything more, so we hauled him down to the Yard on a charge of assault against the two women. We had barely begun to question him before a passing mention of Broad Street in Soho set the man trembling, and within an hour we had got the whole affair out of him.
The next evening I called at Dr. Watson's home in Kensington. He offered me a glass of brandy and a cigar and motioned me into a chair. On a shelf by the wall I caught a glimpse of a polished violin in an open case. Curious - I hadn't thought of him as the musical type, but then again, you never can tell.
"Don't keep me in suspense, Inspector," he said. "You look as if something's happened."
"We've only caught Mary Langford's murderer, is all," I said, but I found it somewhat less satisfying to relay my victories to him than to Mr. Holmes. He looked politely impressed, and not surprised in the least - or anyway he hid it well if he was.
"Please go on," he said.
"It was your help that did it," I said, and I admit I got a rather unfamiliar pleasure out of giving somebody else the credit. "We went to the factory where she and Hannah Molesey worked, as you suggested. In no time a man showed himself there who we recognized as somebody seen lounging around the boarding house in Broad Street when Mary Langford was killed. He was harassing some of the workers for information about Hannah Molesey's whereabouts."
"He didn't know she was dead, I take it."
"No, but he soon found out, and when we questioned him, he sang like a nightingale. He was intimidating to look at, our friend was, but he was new to the criminal world, and even newer to the gang behind all this."
"There was a gang involved?" Dr. Watson seemed genuinely surprised to learn this.
"Yes, but not involved with who you might think," I said. "You see, our talkative friend was quite adamant on one point: he did not kill Hannah Molesey. But it wasn't for lack of trying; when you said to me that Hannah Molesey resembled Mary Langford, you were closer than either of us could've imagined."
Comprehension showed on Dr. Watson's face. "Then the reason you found that receipt in Mary Langford's pocket--"
"--was because Hannah Molesey had given her her coat. Precisely. Miss Molesey was a troubled woman, Doctor. She had fallen in with a dangerous crowd, of which Mary Langford's eventual murderer was a part. However, either their practices or their lifestyle - I suppose we'll never know - got to be too much for her and she tried to leave. They objected, she threatened to involve the authorities... and they decided something had to be done about her before she did."
"So Mary Langford died simply because of a case of mistaken identity?"
"We believe so. Her murderer certainly maintains it, but in spite of his hopes that doesn't make him any less guilty. New as this man was to the gang, he saw the coat and her general looks and mistook her for his target. We think Hannah Molesey must've given her the coat when she left the factory. I don't know if we'll ever find out why she did that either."
"Just helping a friend, perhaps. And so after somehow discovering that this friend was murdered in her stead, out of fear or despair Hannah Molesey leapt to her death off Waterloo Bridge." We fell into silence, and I could see on Dr. Watson's face that he was turning the entire case over in his mind.
"Lestrade," he asked presently, with a note of deliberation in his voice, "may I ask you something? You're under no obligation to answer, of course."
"Go ahead," I said.
"What upset you, in Mary Langford's room that night?"
"How the devil did you--"
A wry smile tugged at one corner of his mouth, as if he appreciated the irony of the shifted roles we suddenly played. "I did not live for seven years with Sherlock Holmes for nothing. You needn't worry, Inspector, you were quite composed. But I did notice something off about you, and your young constable was much easier to read. I must admit he made a gallant effort to distract my attention from you, though if you'll forgive me saying so, his worry was more than evident. And beside that, I hope I know you well enough by now to realize that you would not forget to check for footprints unless you were preoccupied. Holmes pointed out that you'd neglected to do so one too many times, if I recall, and you said you'd be damned if you gave him an excuse to remind you again."
"God almighty, stop that," I said, only half in jest. "It's frightening."
For a moment I thought was about to laugh, but then his features went blank with realization. It was several moments before he spoke. "Is that why, then?" he asked. His voice held an uninterested tone that surprised me until I saw on his face that it resulted from strict control. "Because I was using his methods?"
I cleared my throat uncomfortably. "Could have been. I don't rightly know."
"I apologize," Dr. Watson said. "I shouldn't have pried. I only thought it had something to do with the case, and I was anxious to fill in any missing pieces. I suppose such insensitivity is another unfortunate trait I learned from him." Something in his tone triggered the inexplicable desire to deny that Mr. Holmes had ever been insensitive; it was only when I recognized how ridiculous the idea was that I realized it was because he had sounded so desperately sad. I could find nothing to say for a long moment.
"Doctor, I never had a chance to, ah... to extend my--"
"There's no need," he intercepted gently. "You were his friend as well." I don't know whether I quite believed that, but it touched me to hear him say it. "And there are few enough of us who miss him with any sincerity."
"Have people been bothering you?" At my indignant tone he gave me a look straight out of Mr. Holmes's repertoire, though milder; I don't think he'll ever quite master that level of condescension.
"I can take care of myself, Lestrade."
"Of course you can, of course you can."
"My wife and I have had a handful of the more audacious callers, although I'm sure Mrs. Hudson has had more. I can't blame them for their curiosity, but I have begun to wonder how many would remain curious after I knocked them down my front steps."
"And no-one would think you unreasonable if you did," I said. It was a miracle he hadn't already, but I knew well enough the man had the patience of a saint. "Anyway, the Force is grateful for all the help you've given us. There isn't a detective who's worked with you who hasn't remarked on what a professional job you've done."
He inclined his head. "Thank you. I'm happy to do what I can; I know I'll never be the kind of help Holmes was to you."
"I doubt anybody will be," I said. "But I don't think we would've made heads or tails of this business without you. He would be proud of you, Doctor." The moment I said it I wished I hadn't, because I saw tears start in his eyes as he turned away from me.
"Better late than never, I suppose," he replied in a falsely light tone, and busied himself with trimming another cigar.
His words struck me right to the heart, and I said, "Surely, you can't believe he wasn't--" His expression stopped my breath, and I bit off the rest of what I'd been about to say. It was only then that I finally saw why I instinctively treated Dr. Watson like a widower: ridiculous as it sounds, I could find no more apt parallel. He was more than bereft; he had lost the person he depended on to anchor him, to give him a purpose. And this person was a man he thought hadn't valued him?
"Watson," I said, and I don't know which surprised him more - that I dropped his customary title, or that I couldn't keep my damned voice from shaking. "Mr. Holmes was not a man to countenance anyone he didn't deem deserving of his time. I've never known anybody more intolerant of one's failures. He must have thought you had precious few, for him to desire your company for so long."
I don't know that I convinced him - indeed, I'm fairly sure I didn't - but I think the effort meant something to him, and he offered me a soft smile that somehow made me feel even worse. If he noticed my discomfort at having made such an embarrassingly sentimental statement, he gave no indication, but then he has never been the type of man to do so. I cleared my throat again and said, feeling dreadfully awkward, "I do hope you'll continue to lend us your assistance."
"It would be my pleasure, Lestrade," he said, and I found that I could reply without reservation that it would be mine as well.
I babbled to
caitirin a great deal during the writing of this, because I couldn't keep my own plot straight (she helped with that), and we had this conversation in the dining hall one night:elaby: I started a Lestrade fic today.caitirin: Ooh! I love Lestrade fics! ... for some reason. I blame you.elaby: Hee! I love Lestrade.caitirin: Lestrade hits on Watson!elaby: That's Russian Lestrade. I love Granada Lestrade.caitirin: That's because he makes a good OT3.elaby: XD My story just has Lestrade and Watson, though. It's while Holmes is "dead."caitirin: It's an OT2, then.elaby: It's more like an OT3 less one.caitirin: It's an OTsad! *madface*elaby: ^^;;;It did rather turn out to be an OTsad, if you consider "one true pairing/three/whatever" to encompass awkward prickly unsure friendships and utterly devoted lifemates. Anyway, without further ado.
Title: The Molesey Mystery
Rating: PG for mild swearing and the results of violence
Characters: Watson, Lestrade, Holmes in absentia
Disclaimer: All characters created by ACD belong to their copyright holder(s), not me.
Summary: When Holmes returned in 1894, he told Lestrade that he had handled the Molesey Mystery "fairly well." This may have been because Lestrade had some help.
Warnings: Hiatus-fic, so there's quite a bit of unhappiness involved.
Word Count: 5,859
Notes: Lestrade narrates. This is set in the late spring of 1891, about a month after Holmes's "death." It was inspired by the implication in the Granada series that Watson worked with Lestrade fairly often during Holmes's absence. This is also kind of a much longer prequel to my ficlet Most Unexpected, about Lestrade's reaction to Holmes's telegram notifying him of his return. As such, it also features Constable MacPherson, hopefully less put-upon this time.
I didn't believe a word of it when I read it in the papers. A man like that does not die, I said to myself, despite the fact that a detective should know better than most that every man meets his end eventually. That was all well and good for everybody else, but it was somehow more difficult to believe in this case; a man like Mr. Sherlock Holmes does not die. How stupid did those reporters think we were?
I determined to go round to Baker Street at my earliest convenience and see for myself what was up. My earliest convenience ended up being a number of days after the article came out, owing to business at the Yard, but go I did, and as the familiar brownstone came into view, I saw Dr. Watson standing on the steps and talking to that landlady of theirs. The poor woman was distraught, but I needn't have seen her at all – it only took one look at the doctor and I knew it was true.
I stood like an idiot on the street-corner for I don't know how long, until some bloke ran smack into me and I realized I was blocking traffic. Then I headed back toward the Yard and tried to think what the hell we were all going to do now.
Four miserable weeks brought into sharp focus how much I had truly depended on Mr. Holmes, and the frustration of his being gone was exacerbated by the frustration of seeing my own deficiencies laid before me as neatly as if he'd pointed them out himself. He was smug and unconventional, he delighted in breaking rules that the official force must needs hold to, and he was deucedly hard to get along with, but no detective worth his salt would deny Mr. Holmes's brilliance. He'd never know it now (and God help me if I'd ever admitted it to him) but I admired him, and I valued our conversations when he deigned to include me, as insufferable as the man sometimes was. Scotland Yard had muddled along without him before he ever offered us his services, and we would do so again; nevertheless I was sorry for it.
It was during the fifth week that one of the constables poked his head into my office and said that there was a Dr. John Watson here to see me. Surprised and more than a little curious, I gave word to have him sent in. I admit it shook me to see him; I barely recognized the man. From the looks of him, any troubles I'd been having were nothing compared with his.
He was as courteous as always in greeting me and asking how things at the Yard were going, but I was too distracted to give more than perfunctory answers, and I found myself unthinkingly slipping into the role I employed when dealing with bereaved spouses. If he noticed, he gave no indication; I stopped when I realized how ridiculous I sounded, more to prevent my own embarrassment than his.
"What can I do for you, Doctor?" I asked when we had run out of awkward pleasantries. "I'm delighted to see you, of course, but I doubt you came all the way down just for that."
"No, indeed," he said, with a shyness that only made his despondency seem deeper. "There was something definite I wanted to ask you. My practice is doing well, but all the same I find myself with..." Here he paused and gave a weak smile. "...a bit too much free time. I don't suppose there's any need at the Yard for a surgeon? I know you've worked with some in the past in determining the cause of death in murder investigations."
"We have," I said, "and we can always use another. Whether I'd be able to get you onto the payroll is a different matter--" Dr. Watson held up a hand to stop me.
"I would not need to be compensated."
"Are you sure?" I asked. "It isn't pleasant work, and the hours are irregular to say the least."
"Did Holmes ever charge you for his services?" He said it as steadily as a man ever said anything, but something in his face now made it clear that this request had little to do with boredom.
"No," I said softly, then cleared my throat. "No, he didn't. We'd be happy to have you, Doctor. Our consulting surgeons work on a rotation, and we have separate lists based on specialty." We spent a few minutes discussing his schedule and I let him know that we'd wire him or drop by when his services were needed.
A week or so later there was a murder in a boarding house in Soho. The body was discovered in the evening just before darkness began to fall. They were lighting the streetlamps as we walked from the nearest terminus down toward the house in Broad Street, myself and young Constable MacPherson, who had the dubious honor of fetching me from Rotherhithe where I'd been untangling a bungled robbery investigation. The experience left me in no sweet temper.
"You've sent for a surgeon, I take it?" I asked him.
"Yes, sir," MacPherson replied, flipping through loose pages of the untidy notebook he kept. "A Dr. Watson. We sent off a telegram just before I came to find you."
"He might be here before us, then," I said. "That'll ensure one thing's done right tonight in any case." This was the first time I was to work with Dr. Watson, but I'd heard around the Yard that he'd been more successful than many of our surgeons in keeping his examinations in line with the requirements of a murder investigation. He certainly had enough experience in the area.
A detective sergeant was keeping the curious public back from the steps of the boarding house, and another constable waited inside the door. He informed me that the other residents were being held for interviews – despite the six possible rooms, there were only two others filled – and the surgeon had arrived and was already upstairs. The room in question was tucked in the back opposite the lavatory, accessible through a narrow abomination of architecture that served as a vestibule.
To call the entire place squalid would have been generous. The landlord had apparently not yet seen fit to pay the expense of having gas laid, and in addition to the dimness there had been little in the way of cleaning: tallow stained the railings and the carpet going up the stairs was dark with dirt from the street. I could see a faint light from an open door coming from the back of the landing, and I headed toward that with MacPherson at my heels.
I stepped into the so-called vestibule and saw two lit lamps placed on the floor on either side of the body of a young woman. Dr. Watson was not beside her, however; he was standing over by the bed with another lamp in his hand. As I watched, he set it down and threw himself onto his hands and knees to inspect the floor in a manner that was most jarringly familiar. A few moments passed and he pulled himself up, and there was where the similarities ended – he moved gingerly, as if he were in pain, and as he rose he gripped the bed-frame for support and favored one leg. I know the man's not old by any stretch, but he looked it then, as if he carried some terrible weight he only just bore up under, and it was merely a matter of time before it dragged him down again.
There in the darkness of the hall I choked up all of a sudden. To this day I'm not certain why – it's always the stupidest thing that does it, isn't it? I waved MacPherson on ahead of me to give myself a moment's composure, and he peered at me with a sort of daft alarm that made me want to hit him. In the interest of not causing a scene I refrained.
MacPherson finally went into the room and fumblingly asked Dr. Watson what he thought the girl died of, to which the doctor, with infinite patience, explained that the crushing blow to her skull probably did it. In a matter of seconds I had sufficiently mastered myself and I joined them beside the body.
"Doctor," I said with a nod. "Thank you for coming."
"Good evening, Inspector," he said. "Do you have any idea who this woman is?" I looked to Constable MacPherson with upraised eyebrows.
"Hannah Molesey," he said, flipping open that damned notebook again. "We found her coat hanging on the back of the door, and there was a signed receipt in the pocket."
"What are your findings?" I asked Dr. Watson, and for a moment there was a distracted frown on his face. Then he shook himself and crouched down beside the woman. I followed suit.
"She was between twenty-five and thirty years old," he said. "She was hit with something heavy and blunt on the back of her head. The direction of the blow indicates that whoever hit her was right-handed. There's also some flakes of rust in her hair around the wound, which would suggest that the weapon was metal and old."
"When was the time of death?"
"Judging by the rigidity of her limbs I would say between six and twelve hours ago."
"Did you find anything else of note?" I asked.
"She was somewhat undernourished, but that's nothing singular, and from the look of her hands she has recently done a great deal of dextrous labor. Sewing, perhaps. The room is bare of any indication of human habitation save for a suitcase in the closet. I haven't spoken with the landlord, of course, but it would seem that Hannah Molesey only just moved in." He paused for a moment. "Or was in the act of moving out. Either would be equally plausible. There were a man's footprints in the dust on this side of the vestibule," he added, nodding in that direction, "but I daresay now..." Dr. Watson looked over at me with gentle remonstrance, and I sighed deeply.
"I ought to have been more careful on my way in, yes. Well, if anybody knows anything here, we'll find out about it, rest assured," I said, getting to my feet. I almost reached down to help the doctor up, but I didn't know how welcome it would be. If we had been alone I might've; preserving dignity was more important when there was a constable in the room. "Thank you for your help," I said, as Dr. Watson gazed down at the girl with the same preoccupied look. I folded my hands behind my back. "Was there anything else?"
He looked up as if surprised that I had noticed his scrutiny, then shook his head and rose. "No, nothing. You'll let me know what you find out?"
"Of course."
Two constables arrived with a stretcher to take the body away for an autopsy just as Dr. Watson was leaving, and afterwards MacPherson and I went back over the room and interviewed the landlord and the two other tenants. The former stated that the woman had paid for rooms under the name of Mary Langford, not Hannah Molesey, but that was the extent of the information we got out of them. She had only moved in the past weekend. No, she didn't have references, the landlord told me with a laconic gaze that seemed to ask if this looked like the sort of establishment that asked for references. She didn't say where she was from and he didn't ask. The other two tenants had spoken to her once or twice in the hall but otherwise knew nothing about her. They couldn't even confirm her name.
I left the house in an even worse mood than I'd arrived, which was saying something. "No-one knows where she came from, no-one knows where she worked, and no-one ever saw her in the company of anybody else," I muttered as MacPherson and I headed back toward the Yard. "I don't know how I'm supposed to do my job when I've got nothing to go on." Even more infuriating was the certainty that Mr. Sherlock Holmes would have seen some clue in the wasteland from which we had just departed even though I could find nothing. "What we're going to do is this. It's a busy street; if she was killed this morning, somebody around here had to have seen something. First thing tomorrow I want you back here and interviewing people until we get a lead we can follow. Meanwhile I'm going to try to see if I can sort out this mess concerning her name." MacPherson scribbled furiously in his notebook.
"Did you know that woman, sir?" he asked timidly as we turned the corner. I threw a contemptuous glare up at him.
"Know her? Of course I didn't know her! It would make our jobs a deal easier if I did. Don't you think I would've said so?" He gave an awkward half-shrug and looked chagrinned while I attempted to reign in my temper. "What on earth made you think that?"
"Well, sir, it's just when you saw her, you looked..."
"Yes, Constable? I looked what?" I snapped, with I daresay more harshness than he deserved.
"Nothing, sir! I didn't-- never mind, sir. I'm sorry, sir."
"Put it out of your mind, Constable," I said with a sigh. "It had nothing to do with the case."
The next day I succeeded in determining that we had no record of a Mary Langford at the Yard or any of our local branches, but I did not consider it much of a success. MacPherson brought back reports of a rough-looking man who was seen hanging around the house on the night previous to the murder, and one neighbor saw him again that morning. His description was hardly singular, though, and it would be long, arduous work locating him. The day after I was called out to Deptford to investigate a stabbing, and I didn't get back to the Yard until evening. When I came in one of the constables informed me that Dr. Watson had been waiting some time for me in my office.
I startled him in the middle of a reverie, and it did not seem an overly pleasant one, but he looked relieved to see me.
"I'm sorry to have made you wait, Doctor," I said. "You might've sent a telegram if it was urgent."
"It's not, really," Dr. Watson said, turning his hat about in his hands. "But it may be important. I've been racking my brains ever since I saw you last to try to remember why the name Hannah Molesey sounded familiar to me. It finally came back to me today – and that girl I examined was not Hannah Molesey."
"Can you be sure?" This light, if a light it was, looked to be the only one shed on the investigation thus far.
"Yes," said he, "absolutely. Immediately after I returned to practice – that was going on three years ago now, which is why I didn't recall right away – I treated a boy by the name of Joseph Molesey for pleurisy. I only heard of it in passing, but he had an older sister, called Hannah, who had worked in a factory as a child and had her right hand mangled in an accident. The hands of the young woman whose body I examined were perfectly whole."
I sat down at the desk and opened my notebook. "You don't happen to remember the address of this family, do you?"
Dr. Watson took a folded piece of paper out of his breast pocket and handed it over to me. "I took the liberty of checking my files for it. They may have moved in the intervening time, but it's a start."
"That it certainly is, Doctor," I said. "Finding out why this woman had Hannah Molesey's signed receipt in her pocket could go a long way in identifying her."
"You have no leads yet?"
"We're following up on several significant clues," I said brusquely, and then remembered who I was talking to. "But truly, yours is the only concrete information we've got so far. We have a vague description of a suspect and I'm having the house watched, but unless he comes back, there's little chance we'll find him down that route. It's a tangled mess, and you'll understand I'm not being modest when I say I fear it's beyond me."
Dr. Watson rubbed the bridge of his nose and gave a soft weary sigh. I don't put much stock in ghosts – not after that business with the hound up at Dartmoor – but if absence can have a presence and that's what you want to call it, I've never been in a room more haunted than my office that evening.
"I wish there was more I could do," Dr. Watson said after a time. "But I could see nothing in that room."
"Nor could I," I admitted, "but you've been immensely helpful as it is. I really--" There was a knock at the door then, and a detective sergeant put his head in.
"There's been a suicide off Waterloo Bridge, sir. They're asking you to come down."
I pushed myself out of my chair, and the doctor's gaze followed me as I went to the door. "Do you need any assistance?" he asked.
"I'd be a fool to refuse yours," I replied, and motioned him through the door ahead of me.
We arrived at Waterloo Bridge sometime after eight o'clock. Several constables were keeping the crowds away from a sad wet bundle someone had pulled out of the river. The sergeant was taking down statements from a pair of women who purported to know the unfortunate person. Dr. Watson bent down to see while I stood over. It was a woman wrapped in a voluminous coat, and when he pulled the fabric back I heard his sharp, startled intake of breath. He looked up at me in astonishment and moved back to show me her hand, scarred and twisted and missing the last two fingers.
"What was this woman's name?" I shouted over to the sergeant, more urgently than I meant to. He raised his eyebrows at my tone, but said:--
"Hannah Molesey, sir. These two ladies and a half dozen others saw her jump, Inspector – there's no reason to believe it was murder."
"I never said I thought it was," I barked at him and crouched down beside the doctor. "This is quite a coincidence."
"You really think it could be a coincidence?" he asked.
"You don't?"
"Well, perhaps," Dr. Watson said with a shrug, "but you would know best, Inspector." It was disconcerting to hear the same words Mr. Holmes had said to me countless times uttered without the slightest bit of sarcasm. Just such a statement from the mouth of the amateur had rankled me enough in the past to dismiss his theories out of hand, if only to prove that I did indeed know best. Long experience had eventually taught me not to ignore anything the man had to say, no matter how infuriatingly put, and Dr. Watson's deferential tone only made it clearer that I should give him the same consideration.
"I would be greatly obliged," I said, "if you would give me your opinion."
The doctor smiled then, just a little, but Lord if I wasn't glad to see it. It occurred to me that this was the first time I'd seen a genuine smile from him since he returned from the continent. "You found a receipt belonging to Hannah Molesey in Mary Langford's coat pocket," he said. "The probability is very strong that they had contact. Mary Langford is murdered, and two days later, Hannah Molesey kills herself. The two events are likely connected - she might have done it out of guilt or despair. Investigating her will be easier than investigating Mary Langford for one reason: Hannah Molesey had people who knew her. Her family may no longer live at the address from my files, but these women are sure to know where she lives now, or at least where she worked. And once we talk to the people who knew her, we can determine how well she knew Mary Langford."
"Sound reasoning indeed." Mr. Holmes would have done well, I thought, to take a page from Dr. Watson's book when it came to suggesting a course of action. It's remarkable how much more likely a man is to listen when one doesn't imply he's mentally inferior - no matter the truth of such an implication. I got to my feet, and while Dr. Watson continued his examination of the body, I talked to the two women whom the sergeant had been interviewing. It turned out they were passing acquaintances of the deceased and had worked with her at a factory that produced pre-cut clothing. Hannah Molesey had a reputation among the workers for coming from a respectable hardworking family but having fallen in with certain unscrupulous persons. They did not know her well, they told me, but she had been nervous of late, and for the past few days she had seemed positively frightened. One of them informed me, with the half-excited conspiratorial air particular to witnesses who had not loved the victim, that last Wednesday Hannah Molesey had broken down crying not an hour after arriving at work and had been sent home to rest.
Even more interesting were the nods of recognition I got when I asked if they happened to know a Mary Langford. She had been a great friend of Hannah Molesey, they said, but she quit work a few weeks ago and they hadn't heard anything about her since. They couldn't say for sure, but they did not believe Hannah Molesey knew where she was, either. Why, they asked, had I found her? I had the unfortunate duty of informing the two women of Mary Langford's death, and it sorely tried my patience to see them react with such unabashed fascination. They offered me every possible useless detail about Mary Langford after that, and it was all I could do to get away from them.
Dr. Watson had finished his examination by the time I joined him, but he still stood over her, apparently deep in thought. When I appeared by his side he nodded toward her.
"Does she strike you as familiar?"
I frowned and scrutinized the woman. Slight of build, hair darkened to honey-brown by the water, skin tinged slightly blue, the dark circles beneath her eyes the only visible sign of her harried last days. She was pitiful, to be sure, but nothing about her jogged my memory. Dr. Watson evidently saw this in my face, and he continued:-- "Her height, her build, and - as near as I can tell - her hair are very similar to Mary Langford's," he said. "Their faces are quite different, of course, but they do generally resemble one other."
"What do you make of that?" I asked. He shrugged.
"I'm not sure we ought to make anything of it, but it is something to note." Dr. Watson then went on to deliver the results of his examination, namely that the woman had clearly drowned and did not appear to have been living healthily of late. After that he bid me goodnight, saying that he had not told his wife he would be gone so long, and entreated a promise from me that I would let him know the moment we found any new information.
The next morning I took Dr. Watson's advice and went over to the factory where Hannah Molesey had worked, bringing Constable MacPherson along with me. We were there for less than an hour when a slight altercation occurred, and a muscular, sandy-haired man was turned out onto the street. He stood for a while shouting at the men who had ousted him, but they were unmoved, and finally he spun away from them, throwing his arms up in frustration. Beside me, MacPherson gave a start.
"Sir! That's the man I told you about, who's been hanging around near the house in Soho!"
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, sir, I am. He came twice yesterday, and he looked so agitated the first time I took particular note of him. So when he came back, I got hold of the neighbor who'd given me his description, and she identified him on the spot."
While MacPherson was talking, a pair of women came out of a door near the other end of the building. The man veered off toward them and appeared to be asking them something. Within seconds he began to get angry at their reticence.
"Well done, Constable!" I said fiercely and slapped MacPherson on the shoulder. He went red to the ears with pride, and we hurried out of the doorway where we had been waiting and across the street. As we neared them - he'd now taken one of the women by the arm and was shaking her roughly - I heard the man ask in no polite terms where Hannah Molesey was. Formidable as the fellow was, he went white as a fish's belly when he saw us. His reaction to being informed that Hannah Molesey was dead was even more remarkable: he gave a massive sigh of relief, and his color returned only to quickly bleed away again.
"I didn't--" he began, but wisely stopped when he saw my expectant look. He refused to say anything more, so we hauled him down to the Yard on a charge of assault against the two women. We had barely begun to question him before a passing mention of Broad Street in Soho set the man trembling, and within an hour we had got the whole affair out of him.
The next evening I called at Dr. Watson's home in Kensington. He offered me a glass of brandy and a cigar and motioned me into a chair. On a shelf by the wall I caught a glimpse of a polished violin in an open case. Curious - I hadn't thought of him as the musical type, but then again, you never can tell.
"Don't keep me in suspense, Inspector," he said. "You look as if something's happened."
"We've only caught Mary Langford's murderer, is all," I said, but I found it somewhat less satisfying to relay my victories to him than to Mr. Holmes. He looked politely impressed, and not surprised in the least - or anyway he hid it well if he was.
"Please go on," he said.
"It was your help that did it," I said, and I admit I got a rather unfamiliar pleasure out of giving somebody else the credit. "We went to the factory where she and Hannah Molesey worked, as you suggested. In no time a man showed himself there who we recognized as somebody seen lounging around the boarding house in Broad Street when Mary Langford was killed. He was harassing some of the workers for information about Hannah Molesey's whereabouts."
"He didn't know she was dead, I take it."
"No, but he soon found out, and when we questioned him, he sang like a nightingale. He was intimidating to look at, our friend was, but he was new to the criminal world, and even newer to the gang behind all this."
"There was a gang involved?" Dr. Watson seemed genuinely surprised to learn this.
"Yes, but not involved with who you might think," I said. "You see, our talkative friend was quite adamant on one point: he did not kill Hannah Molesey. But it wasn't for lack of trying; when you said to me that Hannah Molesey resembled Mary Langford, you were closer than either of us could've imagined."
Comprehension showed on Dr. Watson's face. "Then the reason you found that receipt in Mary Langford's pocket--"
"--was because Hannah Molesey had given her her coat. Precisely. Miss Molesey was a troubled woman, Doctor. She had fallen in with a dangerous crowd, of which Mary Langford's eventual murderer was a part. However, either their practices or their lifestyle - I suppose we'll never know - got to be too much for her and she tried to leave. They objected, she threatened to involve the authorities... and they decided something had to be done about her before she did."
"So Mary Langford died simply because of a case of mistaken identity?"
"We believe so. Her murderer certainly maintains it, but in spite of his hopes that doesn't make him any less guilty. New as this man was to the gang, he saw the coat and her general looks and mistook her for his target. We think Hannah Molesey must've given her the coat when she left the factory. I don't know if we'll ever find out why she did that either."
"Just helping a friend, perhaps. And so after somehow discovering that this friend was murdered in her stead, out of fear or despair Hannah Molesey leapt to her death off Waterloo Bridge." We fell into silence, and I could see on Dr. Watson's face that he was turning the entire case over in his mind.
"Lestrade," he asked presently, with a note of deliberation in his voice, "may I ask you something? You're under no obligation to answer, of course."
"Go ahead," I said.
"What upset you, in Mary Langford's room that night?"
"How the devil did you--"
A wry smile tugged at one corner of his mouth, as if he appreciated the irony of the shifted roles we suddenly played. "I did not live for seven years with Sherlock Holmes for nothing. You needn't worry, Inspector, you were quite composed. But I did notice something off about you, and your young constable was much easier to read. I must admit he made a gallant effort to distract my attention from you, though if you'll forgive me saying so, his worry was more than evident. And beside that, I hope I know you well enough by now to realize that you would not forget to check for footprints unless you were preoccupied. Holmes pointed out that you'd neglected to do so one too many times, if I recall, and you said you'd be damned if you gave him an excuse to remind you again."
"God almighty, stop that," I said, only half in jest. "It's frightening."
For a moment I thought was about to laugh, but then his features went blank with realization. It was several moments before he spoke. "Is that why, then?" he asked. His voice held an uninterested tone that surprised me until I saw on his face that it resulted from strict control. "Because I was using his methods?"
I cleared my throat uncomfortably. "Could have been. I don't rightly know."
"I apologize," Dr. Watson said. "I shouldn't have pried. I only thought it had something to do with the case, and I was anxious to fill in any missing pieces. I suppose such insensitivity is another unfortunate trait I learned from him." Something in his tone triggered the inexplicable desire to deny that Mr. Holmes had ever been insensitive; it was only when I recognized how ridiculous the idea was that I realized it was because he had sounded so desperately sad. I could find nothing to say for a long moment.
"Doctor, I never had a chance to, ah... to extend my--"
"There's no need," he intercepted gently. "You were his friend as well." I don't know whether I quite believed that, but it touched me to hear him say it. "And there are few enough of us who miss him with any sincerity."
"Have people been bothering you?" At my indignant tone he gave me a look straight out of Mr. Holmes's repertoire, though milder; I don't think he'll ever quite master that level of condescension.
"I can take care of myself, Lestrade."
"Of course you can, of course you can."
"My wife and I have had a handful of the more audacious callers, although I'm sure Mrs. Hudson has had more. I can't blame them for their curiosity, but I have begun to wonder how many would remain curious after I knocked them down my front steps."
"And no-one would think you unreasonable if you did," I said. It was a miracle he hadn't already, but I knew well enough the man had the patience of a saint. "Anyway, the Force is grateful for all the help you've given us. There isn't a detective who's worked with you who hasn't remarked on what a professional job you've done."
He inclined his head. "Thank you. I'm happy to do what I can; I know I'll never be the kind of help Holmes was to you."
"I doubt anybody will be," I said. "But I don't think we would've made heads or tails of this business without you. He would be proud of you, Doctor." The moment I said it I wished I hadn't, because I saw tears start in his eyes as he turned away from me.
"Better late than never, I suppose," he replied in a falsely light tone, and busied himself with trimming another cigar.
His words struck me right to the heart, and I said, "Surely, you can't believe he wasn't--" His expression stopped my breath, and I bit off the rest of what I'd been about to say. It was only then that I finally saw why I instinctively treated Dr. Watson like a widower: ridiculous as it sounds, I could find no more apt parallel. He was more than bereft; he had lost the person he depended on to anchor him, to give him a purpose. And this person was a man he thought hadn't valued him?
"Watson," I said, and I don't know which surprised him more - that I dropped his customary title, or that I couldn't keep my damned voice from shaking. "Mr. Holmes was not a man to countenance anyone he didn't deem deserving of his time. I've never known anybody more intolerant of one's failures. He must have thought you had precious few, for him to desire your company for so long."
I don't know that I convinced him - indeed, I'm fairly sure I didn't - but I think the effort meant something to him, and he offered me a soft smile that somehow made me feel even worse. If he noticed my discomfort at having made such an embarrassingly sentimental statement, he gave no indication, but then he has never been the type of man to do so. I cleared my throat again and said, feeling dreadfully awkward, "I do hope you'll continue to lend us your assistance."
"It would be my pleasure, Lestrade," he said, and I found that I could reply without reservation that it would be mine as well.
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no subject
Date: 2009-04-06 04:05 am (UTC)I'm crying.
This is just beautiful. That self-command becomes so crushingly powerful when it weakens. And that Watson felt unable to live up to Holmes' expectations ... is at once jarring, terribly sad, and completely natural.
So, so good.
no subject
Date: 2009-04-06 09:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-04-06 07:07 am (UTC)It was disconcerting to hear the same words Mr. Holmes had said to me countless times uttered without the slightest bit of sarcasm. Just such a statement from the mouth of the amateur had rankled me enough in the past to dismiss his theories out of hand, if only to prove that I did indeed know best. Long experience had eventually taught me not to ignore anything the man had to say, no matter how infuriatingly put,
At last! Poor Lestrade was rather slow on picking this up, wasn't he?
"Better late than never, I suppose,"
*wimpers* Oh Watson!
I am also greatly jealous of your ability to include an intriguing plot.
In short: was brilliant!
no subject
Date: 2009-04-06 09:58 pm (UTC)Yeah, Lestrade is a little slow on the uptake XD I imagine him as the sort of person who doesn't think about feelings or motivations often, but when he does, it's kind of an epiphany.
no subject
Date: 2009-04-06 11:10 am (UTC)*saves*
*prints*
will report back. :-)
no subject
Date: 2009-04-06 10:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-04-08 12:52 pm (UTC)*goes for coffee*
*reads*
Cor blimey missus, that was fab! Not that I'm surprised that it's fab, of course. But it's fab! nonetheless.
no subject
Date: 2009-04-08 09:45 pm (UTC)Also thank you for not being surprised. D'aww. *shuffles*
no subject
Date: 2009-04-06 11:14 am (UTC)"Better late than never, I suppose."
*whimpers* DON'T BELIEVE YOURSELF, WATSON! :(
I'm not quite sure how you can accomplish making me sniffle over Watson and feel so murderous toward Holmes at the same time.
And Lestrade is lovely, btw, poor fellow. The whole thing was flipping awesome.
no subject
Date: 2009-04-06 10:03 pm (UTC)But at the same time, secretly pleased.Thank you :) It's really nice to hear that my writing can be effective like that, even though I wouldn't want to make you sad! I think Holmes really starts to realize how callous he can be sometimes once he comes back.
no subject
Date: 2009-04-09 06:17 am (UTC)I'm really looking forward to reading this, and to reading
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Date: 2009-04-09 11:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-04-12 10:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-04-12 11:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-04-10 03:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-04-10 02:40 pm (UTC)Beautyfull and sad
Date: 2009-04-15 05:10 pm (UTC)Totaly awesome.
Ioreth
Re: Beautyfull and sad
Date: 2009-04-15 10:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-04-19 01:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-29 01:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-30 01:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-29 01:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-30 01:50 pm (UTC)